SEVENTH MOON

Seventh moon, Fire Star ebbs away,

and ninth, we share out warm robes.

By the eleventh moon, chill winds howl,

and by the twelfth, it’s bitter cold, killing

cold, rough-quilt robes a blessing:

they warm us through those months.

Then, by the first moon, we ready plows,

and by the second, we’re out in the fields:

I stroll out with my wife and kids,

carry offerings into southern fields,

where the field-foreman is smiling.

Seventh moon, Fire Star ebbs away,

and ninth, we share out warm robes.

Spring days bring the sun’s warmth

and orioles full of song, of restless

song, as girls take their fine baskets

and go wandering on subtle paths

in search of tender mulberry leaves.

Spring days lazy and slow, they stroll

along, picking white southernwood

blossoms, a flock of heartsick girls

longing longing for their noble loves to take them home.

Seventh moon, Fire Star ebbs away,

and eighth, we cut reeds for weaving.

Silkworm moon, mulberry branches

tumble—axes and blades swinging

high up and out, they tumble down,

mulberry leaves so lush and tender.

Seventh moon, shrike is full of song,

and eighth, we spin thread again,

spin yellow-earth and azure-heaven

thread, and reds bright as the sun:

cloth to sew my noble love a robe.

Fourth moon, needle-grass ripens,

and fifth, cicadas rise into song.

Eighth moon, we harvest grains,

and tenth, autumn leaves scatter.

By the eleventh moon, we hunt

badgers, shoot foxes and wildcats:

furs to sew my noble love a coat.

Then by the twelfth, we muster

the great hunt, practice for war.

And keeping the young ourselves,

we offer an old boar to our lord.

Fifth moon, grasshoppers stretch legs and leap,

and sixth, locusts are out fluttering their wings.

Seventh moon off in the wildlands

and eighth sheltering under eaves,

ninth moon sunning at the door

and tenth sneaking inside—crickets

hide under beds, and sing and sing.

I seal up all the windows and doors,

plug holes, and smoke out the mice,

then call over to my wife and kids:

Year’s end is coming, it’s coming—

time we lived our lives inside again.

Sixth moon, we dine on sparrow plum and wild grape,

and seventh, savor steamed mallow greens and beans.

Eighth moon, we pick dates clean,

and tenth, harvest fields of rice,

rice we make into fine spring wine,

long life for age-tangled eyebrows.

Seventh moon, we dine on melons,

and eighth, cut bottle-gourds to dry.

Ninth moon, we gather hemp seed,

thistle-weed, ghost-eye for firewood,

and then feast the field-hands well.

Ninth moon, we turn gardens into threshing-yards,

and tenth, bundle the harvest in from our fields:

summer millet and autumn millet,

rice and hemp, beans and wheat.

Then I call over to the field-hands:

The harvest is bundled up and gathered in,

let’s head inside and put the house to rights.

We gather thatch-grass by day

and tie it into sheaves by night,

then hurry it up onto the roof,

for it’s soon time to sow the hundred grains again.

By the twelfth moon, we take ice-chisels out, cracking and zinging,

and by the first, we haul it in, blocks of it crowding the icehouse.

By the second moon, we rise early,

offer a lamb sacrificed with leeks.

Ninth moon, we’re awed by frost,

and tenth, sweep our threshing-yard,

then we lift winecups two by two,

kill young sheep for a harvest feast,

and parading up to the public hall

raise cups of wild-ox horn for a toast:

Ten thousand lifetimes without limit!